”How do I know?“ said Mrs. Oliver crossly. “How do I know why I ever thought of the revolting man? I must have been mad! Why a Finn when I know nothing of Finland? Why a vegetarian? Why all the idiomatic mannerisms he's got? These things just happen. You try something—and people seem to like it—and then you go on—and before you know where you are, you've got someone like that maddening Sven Hjerson tied to you for life. And people even write and say how fond you must be of him. Fond of him? If I met that bony, gangling, vegetable-eating Finn in real life, I'd do a better murder than any I've ever invented.”
Ariadne Oliver, the mystery writer, is allowed to speak some home truths about being a well known author. Her bony, vegetarian Finn is the fictional stand in for one rotund gourmand Belgian! No wonder Hercule Poirot spends the first pages of this book wishing that he could somehow spend more time eating. Following which, he must stay in guest accommodation where his hostess not only is clueless about cooking, but positively reckless with food safety.
Mrs. Oliver is delightful, declaring trees to be preferable to people, much more restful. Poirot is his usual puffed up self, with irritating mannerisms that Christie seems to regret creating for him. She made a lot of cash from him though, so he was good for something. Honestly, this is the thirty-second installment featuring him, and I know there are more. Colonel Race, Inspector Battle and even Jane Marple would be within their rights to feel neglected.
I've met Mrs. Oliver before in Cards on the Table, but I liked her much more in this novel. I look forward to seeing her again in other titles. (And I could wish for more books that included her too!)
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